


Mechanism

by Classpectanon



Series: Three Hundred And Sixty Five Ficlets About Homestuck [5]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Dialogue Light, Gen, Medication, Prosthesis, Scars, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-05
Updated: 2021-01-05
Packaged: 2021-03-15 16:34:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 966
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28567035
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Classpectanon/pseuds/Classpectanon
Summary: A Vriska woke up grasping for a sore wrist that wasn't there, phantom pins and ghastly needles in a wraith's arm, buzzing with nonexistent electricity through fictional nerves into her very real, and very pained shoulder. Deep blue scar tissue stretched across what remained of her joint, stretching underneath the flimsy shirt she wore to bed. Some podcaster, that's what they were called, talked about Dungeons and Dragons (TM) on her computer.Needed to have plenty of noise to sleep. When she had too much to listen to it meant she wouldn't have to deal with her own thoughts, often loud, often overbearing. Her grabbing hand, her good hand, the left one (she was right handed) eventually realized there was nothing there to grab, and she rolled over in the other direction to push herself vertically up out of bed. Ganglia fired with the assumption that their signal would be carried to the correct place, only to grow confused at the lack of proper direction, making her stump buzz with the softest of agonies.5/365
Series: Three Hundred And Sixty Five Ficlets About Homestuck [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2085684
Comments: 2
Kudos: 15





	Mechanism

A Vriska woke up grasping for a sore wrist that wasn't there, phantom pins and ghastly needles in a wraith's arm, buzzing with nonexistent electricity through fictional nerves into her very real, and very pained shoulder. Deep blue scar tissue stretched across what remained of her joint, stretching underneath the flimsy shirt she wore to bed. Some podcaster, that's what they were called, talked about Dungeons and Dragons (TM) on her computer.

Needed to have plenty of noise to sleep. When she had too much to listen to it meant she wouldn't have to deal with her own thoughts, often loud, often overbearing. Her grabbing hand, her good hand, the left one (she was right handed) eventually realized there was nothing there to grab, and she rolled over in the other direction to push herself vertically up out of bed. Ganglia fired with the assumption that their signal would be carried to the correct place, only to grow confused at the lack of proper direction, making her stump buzz with the softest of agonies.

She grabbed her weekly pillbox, Monday through Sunday, while the radio burped out grungy low-frequency bass tones to rot through the theta waves in her think pan. Saturday morning, she popped the lid with her teeth, worked up some spit, and dry-swallowed. Two sopor pills and some Earth medicine - Ritalin-T, Prozac-AL. Aspirin was surprisingly species-neutral, two went down the hatch. Flintstone multivitamin, crunch and munch between her flattest canines.

Outside, the sun streamed her light through the blackout curtains the best she could, trying so hard to catch Vriska off-guard in her cave with the appearance of the outside world. A bird chirped somewhere, probably, who gave a shit? Chewable vitamin dust clogged up her gums, and she gently bobbed her head back and forth while she wandered in a circle around her room for a bit, in a daze. "Yuh."

It was all about maintenance.

Then, she remembered where she put her arm. It was heavy and uncomfortable, like most things were, but in a more visceral fashion. She grabbed it by the shoulder straps and slung it onto her bed, rubbing bags out of her eyes before wandering vacantly into her kitchenette and popping the fridge open for a glass of water. Still there from last night. She was sure there were some of her medications she wasn't supposed to take on an empty stomach, but if she listened to instructions, well, a lot would be different. Glass, chugged. Fish oil pills. She didn't know if it would do anything to her but it probably couldn't hurt. Slice of cheese, Benedryl, a different brand of anti-inflammatory the name of which she couldn't be arsed to remember.

Vriska couldn't remember if she was "Vriska Prime" or the most important Vriska or whatever. If there were any adventures in her past that her memories would mark as particularly important to the flow of the timeline, they were beyond her glazed-over eyes, sleep steadily being blinked out of them. Steroid creme, topical application. Always hard with one arm, she braced the tub against her teeth, feeling her fangs lock into the familiar grooves in the plastic she had etched out, and popped it open. Slather it on, rub until it enters the skin. Same around her eyes, but not in the socket.

Thankfully, as it turned out, most trolls were pretty much immune to human diseases - their immune systems were designed for the hyperlethal deathworld of Alternia, and not the differently-styled hyperlethal deathworld of Earth. No flu would stand a chance. So it wasn't infection she was worried about, but the swelling, the way her body ████ █████ ███ ██ ██████ ███ ██ ██████ ███ ████████ ████ █ after she slept for too long or didn't move it enough or wore her prosthesis too long or slept for too little time or moved it too much or did nothing in particular. Oh, you didn't need to know that, sorry. TMI, she knows. She puts her eyepatch back on and grabs a grease rag in her teeth, along with some WD-40 and then some actual lubricant, tucking the second can into her available armpit.

Back to bed.

Pulling off parts with one hand, bracing the rest of the arm with her foot. This arm wasn't armored like it used to be, steadily stripped of all its most dangerous components, but it was still plated, still heavy and sealed, still requiring maintenance, cracking open to get to the vulnerable guts, medication, help. She pinned it down with both feet when it threatened to wiggle out of her grasp, thoroughly disassembling it into the bobs and bits and the skeleton. Grease rag, wipe it clean, WD-40 in the joints. Cleaning up every spec of dust with her pistol-shot aim of the canned air nozzle. Pssssssssht. Pssssssssht. The can grew cold in her hand, and when she couldn't handle holding it anymore, she set it down and started greasing up the joints with droplets of lubricant until they stopped squeaking like a dying scurrybeast.

Then, back together. Thankfully, no need for a screwdriver on this version anymore. Just slotting things into place, folding buckles against each other like origami until they locked, intricate woodwork of metal, back around the skeleton until it was covered with skin and ferrous muscle and rusting fat. Back onto the mount, and then her shirt off just for long enough to slip the straps around her, tighten them until the arm was snug against her shoulder. Tap it twice, wince as the tiny needle jabbed into her arm, the uncomfortable feeling of electrodes being pressed into her until they remembered where her severed, barely-regenerated nerves were meant to go.

She felt dull electricity flow into her new hand, flexing it, back and forth, until she was satisfied enough to flip the curtains the bird.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading. All views, kudos, comments, and bookmarks are appreciated.  
> [Twitter](https://twitter.com/classpectanon)


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